Anomalies
by Dark Akuma Hunter
Summary: Adjusting to each other shouldn't have been that easy. Somehow, they simply meshed. Part one – friendship. Part two – pre-slash. Part three – light slash.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: You'll have to forgive me if this is a bit disjointed in the beginning. This came about because I promised my friend Z.C.A I would write something for Sherlock. The beginning of part 1 is something I wrote ages ago, then just the other week I opened the document and basically sat down and wrote the rest. It doesn't have much of a plot - just testing the waters I suppose.**

**Anyway.**

**Anomalies Part One:**

221B Baker Street had never exuded a particularly homely feel. Not with the previous tenants, and definitely not with the current one. Sherlock Holmes was a man who knew at least more than the average person about just about everything there was to know. That wasn't to say that he paid attention to all of it. Social etiquette, for example. Sherlock was functioning at too high a mental capacity to bother with what society deemed as 'appropriate and polite' social behaviour.

Anyone naïve enough to mistake Sherlock as a homely person would immediately be proven wrong. Did normal people keep human skulls on the mantle and fingers in the fridge?

It was a hard task indeed trying to find someone who could cope with Sherlock's unique personality. Mycroft was the obvious first choice, but they were brothers, and Mycroft was his own brand of unusual anyway. No matter how much Sherlock may resent Mycroft's intrusions, there was still a bond there that couldn't be broken.

One was the British Government, the other the World's only Consulting Detective. They made an odd pair, especially when one half continuously claimed the other as his arch enemy. But you can't choose your family, and were they really such a bad pair?

They simply worked, because, although Sherlock would never admit it, he wanted someone to understand his upfront, often abrasive, socially inept personality. Mycroft, despite not being the most understanding person in Britain was, ironically, the one who understood him best.

At least, he was in the beginning.

And then 221B Baker Street received its second tenant.

* * *

John Watson was army – ex-army now – and he had his own fair share of baggage. When he agreed to move in to 221B he wasn't entirely prepared for what he would have to put up with. No matter what he might have gathered about Sherlock prior to agreeing, there were certain things that could only come from experience.

And yet, when he got fed up with Sherlock and his body parts in the fridge, and unusual experiments spread all across the table, he didn't once think about leaving. Why on Earth would he do that?

Sherlock had given him what his life had been missing for so long. Excitement. And if that excitement was sometimes bogged down by irritation, then so be it! Life wasn't perfect, and it never would be, but the current arrangement was pretty damn good.

Yes, Sherlock criticised him and yes, he got sympathetic looks from the police every single time they ventured onto a crime scene, but then Sherlock would do something amazing, and John would speak his thoughts, and just for a moment, the genius's eyes would light up from his praise.

Experience had taught him one thing. No-one appreciated Sherlock Holmes. He solved cases for the police, and was rewarded with insults and taunts which, while he claimed they didn't affect him, always left a slightly hollow look in his eyes when they were finished.

John couldn't understand how they could act like that towards him. In his mind, Sherlock, despite his social ineptitudes, was completely brilliant. And so he made a point of telling him so. Most of the time Sherlock would scoff or ignore him or say something along the lines of "of course I am John, keep up", but sometimes, when the man was in a particularly dark mood, John liked to imagine his words like a candle in the darkness.

* * *

They lived together, and they coexisted, and it was crazy because they needed each other but would never admit it.

Having someone he actually considered a friend, someone whose company he could tolerate, even appreciate, for long periods of time... it unnerved Sherlock. He wasn't the sort of person who _had_ friends; most people avoided him like the plague. It hadn't been outwardly acknowledged and he didn't know what he was supposed to _do_ about it and he didn't know if John felt the same way and he didn't like being dependent on people but with John it was bearable and he just didn't know what was happening to him.

Mycroft was of no help; he didn't have friends either. It wasn't the Holmes way. Mycroft had associates and allies – and no doubt his fair share of enemies too – but friends were non-existent. Sherlock only had enemies. At least, he had only had enemies until John wheedled his way into his life.

What was it about John Hamish Watson?

Sherlock was aghast to realise he didn't know.

He was supposed to be good at deducing people, but he couldn't understand his own mind.  
It was terrifying, but at the same time it was a little bit... thrilling.

John Watson was an anomaly, and maybe that was a good thing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Anomalies Part Two:**

Sometimes Sherlock would catch him staring. It wasn't an intense stare, and it wasn't an "I'm actually just thinking and you happen to be sitting where my eyes were resting" sort of stare either. There was warmth in the gaze, but it was purely observational. John was observing him.

Sherlock knew he had many strange habits, but he didn't think they would be of any interest to the dear doctor. Apparently John had once again escaped the web of his deductive abilities.

The looks were never intrusive. They weren't prying. It was... honest curiosity. And a hint of something else that for the life of him he couldn't decipher.

Take, for example, one of the many times Sherlock's night-time violin sessions had woken John up. He had grumbled half-heartedly as he came out from his room, made himself a cup of tea, then settled into an armchair and simply watched him play until he fell asleep once more.

To Sherlock it was mindboggling.

And, in a stroke of perhaps uncharacteristic kindness, he had retrieved the empty cup from John's weak grasp, placed it on the coffee table, and draped a blanket over his sleeping roommate. He told himself that it would be a pain to have to deal with John getting sick from sleeping in the living room, but somehow he knew that wasn't the case.

Sherlock hadn't slept that night. Instead he had taken over the role of observer once more and watched as John slept obliviously in the chair.

Why did John care? Why was he watching so closely?

Watching people was Sherlock's job, not John's.

He hadn't managed to come up with an answer during that night, and it still eluded him.

John hadn't made any indication that he had noticed Sherlock had noticed, but Sherlock knew he knew, because sometimes he would meet the detective's gaze head-on as if challenging him, daring Sherlock to say something, anything.

He never did.

What was the point? It would ruin the mystery if he simply _asked_. No, John had started this whole thing and Sherlock vowed he would see it through to the end, whatever that happened to be.

* * *

During cases John's looks were different. They were more concerned, more alert. It wasn't a passive observation while they worked, it was a serious worry over Sherlock's well-being. That much he could understand – theoretically. Never having worried over someone himself, he couldn't say for certain what was going through John's mind, but at least he could deduce the base reason behind those looks. They were the 'he hasn't slept in a week and is chasing a killer during the dead of night, I hope he pulls through' looks.

No-one had ever really cared about his safety before. It was a strange experience.

What he hated was that John was mocked for it, mocked for allowing himself to care about the _Freak_.

It shouldn't have bothered him, because Anderson and Donovan were idiots, and it didn't _appear_ to bother John either, but Sherlock just didn't like it. How dare they mock his flatmate for being a better person than they were?

A better person...

Since when had he cared?

* * *

Sherlock was completely lost. Why did he care about John? Why did John care about _him?_ The latter was probably the more pressing question.

Why did John put up with him?

Why did John defend him?

Why hadn't he packed his things and left by now? Hadn't he come close to dying enough times through Sherlock's distraction, his forgetfulness to make his plans for two people rather than one?

And why, _why_ was Sherlock terrified of him doing that very thing?

* * *

Nothing happened for months.

Sherlock continued to be confused, while John continued being mysterious and yet not.

But no, things _had_ happened.

John still wrote his blog. Sherlock still scoffed about it, but read it anyway.

Sherlock still did experiments on the kitchen table and they were always out of milk.

But the atmosphere, the dynamic, it had changed.

John always complained when they were out of milk or tea or whatever else, but now he did it with a fond grin. He would only roll his eyes when he discovered bits and pieces of one of Sherlock's experiments somewhere it really shouldn't be. And he'd taken to always eating at the coffee table in the sitting room, allowing Sherlock free reign over the various kitchen surfaces.

Their lives were now integrated; they worked and lived around each other.

* * *

Eventually Sherlock couldn't take it any longer. Mysteries were good when he could solve them within a reasonable amount of time; this was just ridiculous.

"John," he asked quite suddenly one afternoon as he plucked the strings of his violin and John typed slowly away at his blog, "Why are you still here?"

"What on earth are you talking about Sherlock?" John shot back, succeeding in sounding quite confused, but with a knowing look on his face that he knew full well he couldn't hide from the detective. His fingers ceased their methodical tapping and he turned in his seat, silently urging Sherlock to continue.

"No matter how much I think on it, I cannot fathom _why_ you're still here. You know what the world thinks of me, know me better than they do, and yet you haven't left."

"Sherlock," John chided gently, actually surprised by the genuine confusion seeping through from Sherlock's actions. "I'm still here _because_ I know you better than other people. They might dislike you, but me? I think you're brilliant Sherlock, and you'd have to kick me out before I left this flat willingly."

There it was again. John calling him brilliant. But he got the feeling John meant something else when he said brilliant. The way he said it, especially just now, there was depth to it that the word itself just didn't possess.

_I think you're brilliant._

In fact, John almost said it in the same manner that people sometimes said I love...

Oh.

_Oh._

John... loved him.

_Why?_

Sherlock knew he wasn't a good person. He had contented himself with the idea of being alone for the entirety of his life. Then John barged in, and they became friends, of a sort, and John...

Surely John deserved someone better than him.

"Sherlock?"

All of a sudden John was there, crouching in front of him, taking the violin from his hands before he dropped it and placing it gently on the floor, out of the way. His expression said it all. John knew that Sherlock had finally worked it out, but he wasn't going to say anything.

He squeezed Sherlock's knee before moving to get up, to give Sherlock some space.

Sherlock didn't want space. He'd rather not think right now. His thoughts were a dark place.

Something inside of him had snapped at the realisation of John's words. John loved him and, well, Sherlock wasn't all that opposed to the idea. He recalled, once, telling John that he was married to his work, but, well, John had become a part of his work too, in a way, and... All he knew was that he didn't want John to leave. Not ever, but especially not now.

Reaching out he grasped John's wrist, preventing him from pulling away.

"_John._"

And it was just one word, just his name, but it spoke volumes, because it was Sherlock, and he never spoke like that. Just like John had come to understand so much else about Sherlock, he understood this plea for what it was.

It was Sherlock, admitting weakness. Sherlock, battling with emotions unfamiliar to him on a personal level. Sherlock, saying he didn't mind that John loved him, and that maybe, if he could understand it properly, then maybe he loved him too.

John had been prepared for rejection; that's why he never said it outright. That, and because Sherlock had never seemed to like that sentence anyway – he always said that people used the word love too lightly and too often, that it had no meaning anymore.

But this, this was hope and relief and exasperation and joy.

"You're brilliant," he whispered once more, sitting down on the floor by Sherlock's chair and allowing the detective to cling to him.

They'd be all right. After all, weren't they always?


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: You'll have to forgive me for this part being so weird. That's just what happened. Z.C.A takes full responsibility for asking me to write in the first place.**

**Anomalies Part Three:**

After their big realisation, the relationship between John and Sherlock didn't change all that much. At least, to them it didn't.

John still called Sherlock brilliant while they were working cases, but now he knew what it meant, and each time without fail a small smile would pull at his lips. Needless to say, Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson were all rather confused about the turn of events. Donovan expressed her confusion loudly, and with extra vulgarity. Anderson just gave them looks, as though trying to read them, when it was a skill outside of his capabilities. Lestrade thought it was a good thing; anything that lowered the likelihood of Sherlock becoming a hermit – or possibly a homicidal maniac, but he preferred to believe that would never happen – was a welcome thing in his books.

And of course, Lestrade being the least prejudiced against the duo, he was the most open to reading what was actually happening. It was a shock, sure, when he finally figured it out, but Sherlock needed to know that some people _did_ appreciate him. That, and he believed that everyone deserved happiness, even self-proclaimed sociopaths.

Once, after a particularly long case had just been brought to a close, Sherlock had come limping out of some run-down building – having ditched John to go after the criminal himself, something the man was not pleased about – hobbled over to the nearest place he deemed appropriate to sit, waved at John, and shouted quite loudly for everyone in the vicinity to hear, "Brilliant John, absolutely brilliant."

The good doctor flushed the brightest shade of red anyone had ever seen on him, clenched his hands at his sides, marched over to the weary, grinning detective, and kissed him full on the mouth.

In front of everyone.

Anderson and Donovan didn't have to wonder about their behaviour anymore. Of course, Anderson was disgusted and Donovan was even more confused than she already had been, but at least now they knew.

That had been their first kiss, and the first time Sherlock had utilised their little code of affection.  
John waited for Sherlock to initiate each new step in their relationship. That way he could be certain that he wouldn't accidentally do something to scare the detective away. Once he had though, John had free reign. Even so, they weren't the biggest on physical affection. It was more the little things that they had always done that simply had more meaning now with this new mutual understanding.

Sherlock continued his experiments and his midnight concerts, and John continued his blog.

Nothing was really any different, not to them.

Because deep deep down, they had always been drawn to each other.

Now it simply had a label.


End file.
